Thirty is the New Lovely

My parents hung this picture in our living room when I was a small child. I remember standing, for long periods, close enough to it that I could see my reflection in the glass that separated our two faces. Like my parents, I was enamored by this image. I would scrunch my face in every possible direction, attempting to somehow ingrain my own face with even a fraction of the life etched into this woman’s.

Last night, six girls from high school got together in a group, something they hadn’t done in fourteen years. I did the math as I drove home. These girls were ridiculously close to TWICE the ages they were the last time they sat together as a group. Unfortunately, as I looked around at the faces, it was obvious that none of us have achieved the above grandeur quite yet. Not even close. Life has been good to us, I think. The fresh faces are a dead give away. Of course, I guess, come to think of it, one could argue that life in a Zuni village is bit harder than life in the burbs. Although childbirth, just about anywhere, comes with its share of war stories—as we heard last night.

I look forward to doing this many more times. The good news is, with more lines comes less accountability for one’s actions and the holding of one’s alcohol. So here’s to more lines and rowdier times!